Kill the King
by Stormerki
Summary: You can't change the past, but you can certainly change the future... Yet, the past can always come looking for you if he feels like doing that. On Hiatus, Post-Viking Era DenNor, magic and adventure filled. Probably will be re-written.
1. The Forest's Greeting

[Kjetil = Norway]

ooo

_Kjetil wanted to deafen the screams,_

_**kill the **__cruel __**king**__ of the war,_

_run away from all this,_

_let his body expire,_

_eternally quiet,_

_be forgotten._

_But no matter what efforts he made,_

_he'd return to where he began,_

_to the bloodshed,_

_to the gore._

_Eventually the Norseman would freeze,_

_heart enclosed in mile-thick glaciers,_

_soul colder than Svalbard's winter,_

_never to be fully thawed,_

_numbed by the evil_

_winter breeze._

_But he would remember the sunlight,_

_run through it's golden warm rays,_

_smile with such novice glee,_

_but soon even that light,_

_would diminish away,_

_never to be seen,_

_for such a time._

_It was so_

_horrid._

Kjetil leaned towards the orange tounges of fire that crawled on the logs splayed over the frozen winter ground, noticing the amber sparks as they flew and cooled upon impact. The leather-gloved hands would rub against eachother, causing friction, and would approximate themselves to the flames. They'd call the warmth emmiting from the blaze to coat their hands, asking it to abolish the deadening cold from them. He reached with one hand in his food satchel, and grabbed a small chunk of moose meat.

The miserable ammount of food Kjetil had reminded his of what time of year it was. Winter had scared all of the wild game back into their warm dormatories, shriveled the flora, and stripped most trees of their leaves, the exeption being the unedible pines. The chilling cold also spooked away human civilization, which meant no aid. If he was unfortunant, people might find his rotting body in spring one day, instead of right now, when he was atleast alive... Kjetil angrily chewed the smoked meat, glaring at the dead, snowy pine forest infront of him. He recieved no noticable response.

Frustrating. Truely frustrating. But this had been the lifestyle he had chosen over going to village to village, asking for food and a place to sleep for the week, because the Norwegian knew what would happen time and time again- His curse would bring some sort of tradgedy and insecurity to the town, whether it be a famine, pirates, an epidemic, or death. He wanted his steps not to taint the ground with misfortune, but there was nothing he could do. No sacrifice or spell would rid him of this, this unluckiness, something he knew all too well from the variety things his home village had attempted for him to no avail, which ultimately led to the villagers banning him from their small northern home.

He cradled his heads in his hands. No matter how much time passed, he could not rid all of the images from his head of past times. They still managed to cause him crippling pain. But he knew that moping would do him no good, so rather than that, he set out to explore, maybe map out some territory. It was getting dark, a bad time to go outside, but Kjetil didn't plan to wander very far. It wasn't as if he was going to explore the whole world... And he had the advantage of heightened night-vision, a skill he told no one.

He put out the fire by dumping some snow and hard dirt over it, not wanting the light to attract any other animals while he was gone. The blonde-haired man then hid his belongings under a deep pile of snow, not wanting any curious eyes to spot his live-saving items. With all that done, he set out to look around, bringing a small dead squirel, a canteen, and a small hand knife along with him.

After a while of wandering around, he discovered that the area was a fairly good place- He managed to find a river up north that supplied crystal-clear water, a small mountain with abundant ammounts of rocks usable for all sorts of tools, and plenty of house-building timber. The only thing that worried him was the constant howling of wolves. Every minute or two, he'd hear their calls, each one distinct. What if they got close to his camp? He'd hidden his supplies, but knowing them... Also, it wouldn't be pretty to meet one of their kind without any sort of armour or weapons any day.

After filling his leather canteen with water of the river, he decided to head back to his resting area. He hadn't trekked too far, and he could still clearly remember where he had gone, even if every five feet of scenery seemed duplicated. Amidst the light snow [something he had been glad for, usually the snow was knee-deep], rows of pine trees, and spots of frozen dirt, there where small distinctive things:

_Over the river, turning right on the scratched pine, going left when passing the tainted mountain of snow, another left after ariving to the dry-le-_

His train of thought collapsed when he saw a fresh set of footprints heading to the same place he was walking to. They were narrow indentations on the coma-white snow, which Kjetil'd easily remove by walking over them, making them go unnoticed. But now in his sight, he followed these small signs... All the way to his camp.

He resisted the urge to swear loudly as he creeped behind a huge silver wolf digging through the snow where he had placed his supplies. Next to the beast, some cloth lay, ripped up. He recognized parts of his second anorakk, and some leather, possibly from his boots. When he turned back to the wolf, it had already devoured whatever food he had obtained, and was overturning some of the supplies he had, inspecting them, some of them being his assorted collection of knives, hand axes, arrow-heads, and hammers.

Kjetil quietly stared, waiting for the wolf to leave for an agonizing ammount of time. It was better not to try to shoo away an opponent of that size, death on his side being the obvious outcome. But with all of his supplies gone, it was likely that he would die anways. Yet he'd prefer to be given a chance to find life elsewhere than be mauled to death.

Suddenly, a breeze blew from behind me, to the direction of the wolf, dragging his scent to the wolf's nose. The silver-furred monster stopped in mid-job, sniffing the air, searching for the origin of this new smell.

"Fae-," he began as the beast sensed him, turning it's huge furry head around. Drool hang from its mouth, signaling that rabies had infested its body. The beady black eyes held a crooked type of insanity, one donned by murderers. Even through it's thick plated fur, he could see the iron-tough muscles, ready to assist the canine in any type of kill, ranging from a small rabbit to large bison, and the occaisional _blonde haired, blue eyed, young Norwegian called Kjetil._

It let out a baritone growl, the noise seeming to him louder than the fall of a tree. It was all he could focus on, the noise mesmerizing him in a way. Maybe it was the looming threat of death that made him feel that, or it really was truely that enthralling and full of power. But it didn't matter- He wasn't going to be drawn to this beast much longer, due to the fact that he wasn't going to be here anymore _if he didn't do something soon._

_Ttttrrrk..._ A small clicking sound was heard to his left. He could place what it was, but he didn't care. There was a monsterous, sterling-coloured creature probably ready to make him his supper, and there was nothing he could use to fight against it except a small hand knife. It wouldn't be to much use, though, since he wouldn't have enough time to react. It moved forward to him slowly, in a liquid, smooth way.

_Tttttrrrkhhhh... _The noise grew louder, slowly augmenting in volume as the wolf's growl did. Kjetils adrenaline level spiked. His senses heightened. The Norwegian's focus expaned. His brain started making it's own calculations, recalling memories that might aid him in his situations. He began to become a little twitchy.

_"It let out a baritone growl, the noise seeming to him louder than __**the fall of a tree**__."_

_Khhhsh! Fffffshhh- _The sound of a falling pine could be heard all throughout the forest. At the same instant, the wolf lunged to his face. Time slowed down as it neared his eyes, the spit flying from its black gums seeming to freeze in place. Just a split particle in time from the moment when the huge white teeth teared his face, a force threw him to the right without mercy. It left him gasping for air, and his vision slowly began to darken and blur. Something spiky poked his skin along his face, but with his eyesight unusable, and his consiousness slowly slipping away from him, he couldn't tell.

The last thing he recorded before blacking out was a loud snap, a high-pitched canine cry, and a heavy thud.

All was quiet for a long time.


	2. Meeting Magnus

Before I start, I'd like to say that: I'm sorry for the poor quality of the chapters, I will update more often and add more detail. Also, I will no longer write in third person, past tense from this chapter on, but rather in third person, present tense.

And, also! I'l stop writing so many notes all over my chapters, I'm sorry for that. It's a tick I've had with my other stories since I never really publish things.

ooo

The first thing Kjetil felt was the snow.

Sharp, chilled particles that landed on his exposed face. They felt tingly and weird, though, his senses still muddled, and his eyesight still out of service. The water derived from the snow would leaved fuzzy, algid trails. He could feel droplets collecting at his chin, and falling to the ground.

The second thing he noticed was a low humming. It was without any rhythm, just a tune randomly situated together to form what seemed to imitate a song. It brought relaxation to his current mood, a feeling he had not experienced in quite a while. The Norseman let a smirk rise to his lips as he indulged in the pure peace of the situation. He was hungry, a bit thirsty, and obviously cold in the face, but otherwise he felt secure. Stable.

_Secure. Stable._

Before he could even process the words, his eyes had snapped open, and he was up on his feet... Well, not exactly up on his feet, rather jumbled up in a pile of blankets. But as soon as he stood he fell back down as a bout of nausea overwhelmed him. He tried to make sense of the blurry world he was gazing at, nothing currently identifiable. There was a blue tint in the whole picture, making it even harder to recognize anything.

An object, a thing, moved towards him. He could identify the mushy colours taupe, yellow, black, and brown, and that the thing was _very tall._ He tried scrabbling away, but the soft furry blankets held him in place. _Maybe it was another wolf? Wolves didn't wrap people up in blankets though, did they? Wait, maybe they're super smart and they're thinking of tricking me or something and-_

The Norseman could feel the presence of it approaching him, kneeling down a bit to say something.

"I'm not going to hurt you, calm down..." The voice soothed, "...You need to get out of those blankets and eat some-"

Before this stranger- a guy from the sound of the voice- could continue any further, Kjetil lashed out a skinny leg and aimed a blow. He thought that he would have hit his legs or something, his objective being to move him away - The other did respond favorably, but only because his blow had impacted with... _A certain something._

"Neeeej...," the man cried, "My future kids..."

After that, it was quiet for a while. Norway, with his corybantic acts, struggled to free himself from the prison called a blanket, and the stranger nursed his hurt member. It was awkward, the rude introduction not leaving much to say. But after a while, one of them should speak. They shouldn't spend their afternoon, or whatever time of the day it was, in silence, Norway shouldn't pass up contact with civilization.

...Or should he?

As soon as his eyesight cleared, which was in a matter of seconds after the fleeting though of communication with the stranger crossed his mind, the Norwegian gazed at his abductor [that's what he assumed, at least]. He was a rather long and had a Herculean build, with a crazy honey-shaded hair-do that stuck out on all sides, and Beryl eyes. This man's thick Viking-like suit was paradisaical, not a stitch out of place in the leather over-jacket, nor a speck of dust on the white cotton under gown. From his facial expression he looked like a convivial man, a smirk delicately pressed on his face, the echoes of pain already fading away. This spiky-haired person was fully engrossed in cooking a piece of meat above a radiant fire, twirling the ration so it would equally roast. The way the firelight and the moonlight reflected off of this stranger's eyes captivated Kjetil.

An out-of-character feeling sparked in his heart: The want to chat to this appealing man, get to know him, ask him how he got here, and who he was. But the curly-haired one held his tongue, and looked around, seeking more clues about this now seemingly harmless individual. Behind him lay a small tent-like structure, and around the golden-haired man where scattered some cooking supplies like a small gutting knife and what seemed to be a type of hazy small crystal jammed into a chalice of a sort- If he was not mistaken... Was that salt?

Finally, when the silence got the best of the Norseman, he decided to speak, hoping they would understand him:

"_Forstår*..._ Can you understand me?" He inquired in the native tongue he had learned, hoping to receive a good response from him. Mr. Spiky-Hair seemed like a foreigner, his Viking suit seeming a bit different than the ones he had seen when certain towns he had passed were plundered by men donning those suits. It seemed for better use in warmer conditions, seeing that it had no fuzzy neck piece or thick gloves.

After saying that, he realized it was sort of a foolish question, seeing as Kjetil had understood the words that the other had spoken minutes before. But it was at least a good place to start a topic. The first impression had not been very well, and even if the blond Norwegian did roam around the forest like a beast, he had some manners and wanted to stitch things up with his new acquaintance.

The other turned around to face him, blinking as if he was a bit shocked, though that was not exactly the proper word to describe the emotion. Maybe it was relief that he had not received another jarring blow to the balls or something. "Ja... Oh, good, you're awake. Are you feeling well?" He spoke with a very distinct accent, changing the R's into almost guttural choking noises, and speaking rather flatly, adding no volume accentuation to the ends of his words.

"...I'm fine." He answered, swiftly coating his voice with a defensive tone. No person had asked him how he was feeling ever since he left his home-village, which bugged him. But, more bothersome than that, he wanted to comprehend two topics: Who was this bizarrely accented man and what had he done?

"...Who are you, and what have you- Where are we...?" Kjetil questioned.

The stranger's blue eyes gazed with a spark of humour in them. "I'm Magnus, and you?" and without waiting for his answer, Magnus went on to answer the next question. "And as for our location... I have no freakin' idea. In the middle of some misty Norwegian hill-place if that will suffice"

Panic began to rise in him. It was not very good to get lost in any unknown place, even if he had basically been lost before he got here, and specially when he was accompanies by a bizarre man who was totally all right with all this and was just picking at a piece of meat.

This 'Magnus' laughed as he saw his expression. "Chill, I know where we are, it was only a joke. Right now, we're around the coast, nearing... A southern Kingdom. You know 'The Kingdom of Denmark'?"

Kjetil shot him death-stares, not amused with the joke of the accented man. He didn't answer his question.

"OK, I'll assume you don't. So, just to get you up to date, and help you pinpoint where you are, you've been knocked out for about a day- P.S, you're really heavy," he scoffed at Magnus' words, ", and I've basically dragged you south from your original point from that time. Not too much of a help, but..." he grinned, "At the very least you weren't mauled by a rabid silver wolf or toppled over by a tree, eh?"

The Norseman blinked. _Silver wolf? Tree? _Memory was not coming easily to him, but when it did, he shivered. The image of bared fangs and bristling fur were still fresh on his mind, seeming as intimidating as ever. The tree- was that the prickly thing on his face, or was it just...

But then he paused, and thought. He though for a couple of heartbeats.

"...What did you do with the wolf... You didn't kill it, or...?"

Magnus paused his work and looked away, his mood shifting from the completely shiny-faced man to a nervous, guilty looking boy. "Hey, I'm sorry if you're, like, into animals or something and are going to be_ completely distraught _when you hear that I did in fact kill it, but you can always befriend other life-risking canines when I'm not around." He shrugged, going back to picking at the morsel of food, placing something he guessed to be skin in a neat pile on the rock floor. **

The Norseman coughed, awkwardly trying to spawn a response of gratitude and also telling the other blond that it wasn't a problem at the same time, but Magnus', and his own, mood swing and the fact that he wasn't a good talker from the start was really not helping.

"Ehm, _nei_, it's all right, just... How'd you-? You know, how'd you kill that thing? It was really powerful and all..." He felt like a little child trying to ask his mother on the concept of life, death, and philosophy. So awkward.

"Because I'm Danish, and Danish people are cool enough to d- I'm kidding, I threw a hand-axe at it's head. Sorry if I bumped into you too hard or something, a tree did almost fall on you," he pointed out, "You are quite an unlucky man, you. Three misfortunes in one day; May it be told to me if this is a daily thing?"

"No, it is not an everyday occurrence... My name is Kjetil, by the way, not 'you'."

"OK... Sjetil." The Dane answered. He didn't mind correcting him, for it was only a small pronunciation mistake.

They remained in their places for a while, absorbing the silence and peace. Occasionally, Magnus would silently hand him a piece of meat, or even herring, which he'd be glad to receive. The bonfire kept them warm, offering light and heat, two things he was very glad for. He was also very grateful that this stranger had saved him, though he'd have to ask him why later. He got a creepy feeling from all this.

As he took in account their new settlement, the place they had chosen was weird, something he had not payed attention to. It was a meadow, almost, with long, yellowish-gray grass and lots of stones and hills, coated with dense fog and a thin layer of snow, not as deep as the one he had previously been in. The air was still and warm. There was not a tree in sight, but mosses and small, bland-coloured flora grew abundantly, though some of the smaller plants had slightly shriveled. There was the hazy sketch of mountains in the background, something familiar in this alien place.

But, as he gazed out, a small nausea overcame him. It was a queer feeling, a sort of low tone buzzing repeating in his head and a rather fragile-feeling stomach. He ignored it, and decided to focus on other things.

He began stroking the fabric on the brown blanket-thing, trying to recognize the material. It was furry on the inside, but tough and rather leather-like on the outside, sort of like... A sleeping bag? At the edges were small designs imprinted to the material, lines and dots predominating all patterns. It was minimalistic in artiness and extra detail, but good for a traveler like Kjetil or Magnus, if the Dane was into traveling.

The Norwegian liked it.

After a while, he decided to hum a small, repetitious tune, getting tired of the dead air. It was the melody of a lullaby sung to him a while before his exile that he faintly remembered, clinging on to it only because of his constant repetition of it. Several heartbeats into the tune, he received a small glance from his rescuer, and soon, a second voice joined in, with some whispered words.

_"...Bjørnen sover, bjørnen sover,_

_i sitt lune hi._

_Den er ikke farlig,_

_bare vi går varlig._

_Men man kan jo, _

_men man kan jo,_

_aldri være trygg..."_

"But then one can- but then one can... Never be quite sure..." Kjetil whispered the three last lines, shivering, but not from the cold.

He didn't bug to ask them if these were official lyrics, or where he had gotten them. Taking his mind off of that, though, it was brought to his attention another thing:

"...Three misfortunes..." He muttered. _One for the wolf, two for the tree, three for the...?_

"Hmm?" The Dane asked, not quite catching what the wavy-haired one had said.

"Three misfortunes was something you said earlier. What did you mean?"

Magnus stayed quiet for a bit before answering. "Well, you were nearly mauled by a wolf, then almost crushed by a tree, and-"

The other was cut off as Kjetil moved out of the sleeping bag, a sharp pain suddenly overcoming them as they stood up too quickly. He fell back to the ground, and a sticky black fluid flowed out from his esophagus and onto the grass. He grimaced as he caught a quick glimpse at it, it's smell wafting into their noses.

"... And that's the third."

ooo

Note time!

* [A/N: It's Norwegian here, and in the rest of the story, but the actual language they should be using is Old Norse, though sometimes they will speak Old Norwegian/Danish]

** [A/N: Kjetil might seem a little Out-Of-Character for Norway, but anti-social people like him generally don't know how to act out in *cough* common situations. He'll be "normal" for the rest of the story... Until my craving for a Norway-Sob-Fest kicks in, but other then that, yup.]


	3. Black Static

The sticky black liquid is hot- It steams ever so slightly, though possibly because of the chilly air, and leaves a disgusting feeling in Kjetil's mouth. But more uncomforting than that is the fact that he doesn't know where it comes from. It had no solid forms in it that would resemble food, and a slick shine to it, even if it's the colour of the black charcoals left over from a dead bonfire. The vomit seems to hold the consistency of honey, though he isn't sure because it's been a while since he's felt the golden fluid's form.

Magnus began to kick some cold-hardened dirt and dried, flaxen grass in a successful attempt to cover the spill. He offered the Norseman a canteen of water, and a worried smile. With watchful eyes, the Norwegian accepts the water holder and sips from it, the clean water holding no poisons or dirt. He's glad for that, though he regrets not spitting out the first mouthful as the vomit-tainted water slips down his throat with an acid-like trail following it's path.

He's still quite nauseous, though he doesn't want to show it in fear of showing weakness to the other. Asking for help would make him feel vulnerable, a feeling he does not like. Yet the sleeping bag seems oh so comfortable and warm...

The Dane must sense something as he begins to speak, a tone of authority coating his voice.

"You've got to rest... Sjetil? Yeah, I think you ate some plant or animal that was sick or something. It smelled like rotting plants, maybe a mushroom or a pine leaf-needle, thing..." He frets. "But you've still got to rest."

Out of irritation, Kjetil snorts, and speaks to him with no regards of the spiky-hair's feelings. "You half-troll, there weren't mushrooms where I was, and I wasn't in such a dire state of need that I would actually eat _pine needles_." His comment makes Magnus laugh. Grumbling to himself, yet obeying, he climbs into the leather-sheathed sleeping bag, immediately warmed by the fuzzy fibers.

"...Bet it was your damned salted fish or something..." He mumbles before an unsuspected and unnoticed wave of odd, artificial sleep overcomes him.

ooo

"Mother!" A distant voice in the fire screams.

_It's his voice._

It continues to calls out for it's mother, and father, the distress in the shouts rising with each one. The blonde Norwegian goes searching for it through the unoccupied burning village, even though he is not the subject being called for.

"Help! It burns!" The words- no, his own words, technically- pound against his ears from a two story, oddly roofed white house which is in the process of roasting to the ground.

_It's his old home._

The door is long gone and he runs into the dwelling, shielding his eyes and mouth from the acrid smoke that wells up around his face and threatens tears to leak out, seeking the shrieker in the mayhem.

_Why are there two of him?_

A cry emanates from behind him, startling him into facing whatever it is. Tied to a charred wooded column is a black, bubbly, humanoid-like thing that thrashes to free itself from the tough strings, melting fingers grabbing at the rope as it violently screams. There are odd runes that glow through the murk on his forehead, unlike any he's seen before- _"X-III-V"_.

"_Hjelp_!" It calls to him with his own voice from something he could hardly recognize as a mouth, extending one of it's wiry arms on which black liquids fall off of, revealing blood-red bones.

_That isn't him._

"Stay with me, I don't want me to die without my other half!" And with that, it breaks the binds and throws itself at him, sizzling oil flying at him, scalding whatever they come in contact with. It oddly embraces Kjetil, the fluids becoming solid and binding themselves to him. With wide eyes, he tries to escape.

"It's their fault, they left us, they never cared for us. They never gave us that final chance." It sobs red tears that splash onto his neck and bore small holes into his skin. Kjetil wants to scream as it grips his hair with it's now glowing bones that cause his golden waves to smoke and release a horrid smell.

"They left you and I here to burn, to die. Mother didn't look back, even as we called for her."

"Shut up, she did!" He tries to yell in response, but all that comes out is a high-pitched static that causes his left eardrum to burst. He's screaming by now.

It looks him straight in the eyes, the blue sparking orbs within the bubbling sockets boring into his soul. The demon-Kjetil, as he decided to call it, leaned into his right ear to whisper his words, "They never wanted us- _No one will want us. _You hear me? Run from this 'Magnus' you have come to know, and never look back... If you do make it out of this world, that is," it growls, spitting.

He's shocked when a sudden realization hits him: There's something weird about the thing, though he can't place his finger on it because of the pure fear of death that faces him, though he can guess as a fleeting thought passes through his mind. Something about the colours of it, not even the features. Just the colours.

"Red, blue..." He unconsciously croaks through the static and the black, foul tasting liquid that falls into his mouth. "... and black? Isn't it white?"

When he thinks he can take the horrid heat no longer and the black lava has almost fully overwhelmed him, a huge, red-clouded explosion in front of them jars him. A long, axe-butted white cross held by a black-gloves hand grabs the fabric of his shirt through the monster's body with it's point edges and pulls him out of the trap and into the redness that seems oddly comforting.

"_Djævel! Djevelen!_" The dying black thing behind him screams before a white flash envelopes his vision, and he's sucked back into reality.

ooo

"Sjetil! Sjetil!" Magnus' voice exclaims into his ears as he shakes his shoulder in a vain attempt to wake him up. The Norseman's eyes widen to an impossible size and his pupils seem like microscopic pinpoints.

"We've got to go!" He urges, and a spasm of coughing catches him. Kjetil can see that he's been injured, small red blotches appearing over the once-white fabric of his under-tunic around the arms and the chest. But more worse than that are the orange flames that crackle and hiss around them, clawing and charring their surroundings with their long, fiery fingers. Kjetil can't move.

Seeing as the man was invalid, the Dane scoops him up into his arms like a child, oblivious to his weight- or whatever weight the parylized man has-, and carried him away. He does not protest like before, his body limp and cooperative. The steady back-and-forth swinging movement of his run was hypnotic, calming down his frayed nerves. He buried his face in the clothes on his chest, careful to avoid any bloody areas.

_It's probably my fault._

_And this 'stranger' is going to such extremes to help me._

"Land-Pirates," Magnus mumbles into Kjetil's ear after a while of running, "They found a nearby village, and started plundering it." With a shiver, he added, "They took all of the women, and the supplies. They'd probably abduct you too."

" 'M not a lady, though. _Jeg kan _protect myself," he mumbles. He doesn't want to speak any clearer because he knows the still-present smoke will get into his nostrils, which would be disgusting.

Kjetil can hear a smile creep it's way into the spiky-haired man's voice, "You sort of look like one though, I wouldn't put anything past those barbarians," and with a sigh, "You're sick, anyways. You were thrashing around in your sleep, screaming. Are all Norwegians like this?"

Scoffing, but wincing due to a sharp pain that well up from his stomach, he responds sharply. "Are all Danes this... Blunt?"

"The ones that I live with, yeah."

After that, they stay quiet for a while, for they had nothing to say to each other. But, Kjetil knew he should stop overusing the Dane's help, for Magnus may snap sooner or later, or he might end up looking, like, well... Weak. A wimp. But every time he says that it's OK for him to be put down and allowed to walk, the other man refuses, clearly stating that 'there's a safe, protected village up ahead that I'm familiar with, and he'll put him down when it's in sight'. Though the Norwegian notes the bloodstain on his clothing seeping closer and closer to his face, meaning the blood has not clotted yet. Just what happened to this idiot?

Maybe he should call him 'Reckless, Idiotic Dane' from now on.

Reckless and idiotic, but a hero.

When he can't wait a second longer, he opens his mouth to demand about how he is perfectly fine and can walk on his own two feet, but is put down before a single syllable comes out. He's facing Magnus and ready to ask a hundred questions before another step is taken.

"What happened?" He inquires. Getting to see his face better shows some odd emotion, very much like if he had been spooked by a troll.

"...We've almost arrived- Look over there," he points behind him, "It's _Spangarheiði._"

Upon realization that he's not gazing in the right direction, Kjetil turned to face the unkown. A well-sized town, with many tall, white stone buildings [at least, taller than what he had ever seen] with moss on the rock-and-wood roofs, and great wooden support columns built into the structure. There are people walking on the hard dirt streets, though not too many, as if the town was not really awoken. They trudge towards it with heavy feet upon a rocky path that has sprung from the cold grass in silence. When they get to the make-shift enterance, there are huge, pointy stick, decorated with wooden dragon's heads, protruding from the ground that have thick, spiny rope connecting them, making it hard to get through. Some guards await them, blocking their paths with wood bats held up to their chests. The Norwegian resists the urge to bat the flimsy weapon away.

"Sir, we need you to stay here for a second, we must investigate the things you are bringing into Spangarheiði," A funnily-accented, red-haired man tells them with a voice of authority, focusing at the slightly smoking background at the same time. "Please hand us any equipped material."

He's going to panic, seeing as he caries nothing but his clothes which means he must have left all of his things back in their resting spot, but calms down before any emotion can well up as he sees that Magnus has carried all of his supplies over.

The wavy-haired one is going to have a talk with him later. Either this man is Odin, or he does a lot of excersise, but not many people can carry all of that stuff for such a long time. But for now, he's concentraiting on organizing his weapons onto one side, and his general things on another for it to be easier for the guards to check. He's given weird looks by a couple of the supply-checkers.

"You are carrying a handful of weapons, so I'm afraid I'll have to confiscate some for the time that you decide to stay in our town due to the suspicion of _raiders_, unless you plan to live here, for which we'd need to do a different arrangement," the ginger says, though it sounds like he doesn't think they're even going to stay for a minute in the place. "What'll it be?"

Magnus gives the town a look before answering. "We'll be staying here for several sunrises and sunfalls, but you may take them," he says formally. Then, he switches to another language, one that sounds slurred and rusty, making hand signals, sometimes waving his hands in a wavy pattern, or flattening them as in prayer. The guards nods, and responds by opening the gate. Spiky hair runs in, and motions for him to follow.

"Thank you," Kjetil says. The red-haired guard zooms in on Kjetil's face suddenly, his eyes super dilated.

"You, with the blue robes," he mutters, hardly intelligable. "May I speak to you for one moment? In private, that is."

He shoots Magnus a worried glance, but the gate is closed, and they've been split. Magnus is equally confused, asking a guard some questions, which are all given what seem to be a no. Kjetil can feel the pressure of the guard augmenting, waiting to see if he was going with him, but he's not taking his eyes off of his friend.

But, that's when it happens. What it exactly was he doesn't know, but he knows it's something that isn't natural.

The guard on Magnus' side decides to agree to something as he nods his head, and starts walking torwards a small beige tower on the right- And it's when an earsplitting, all too familiar static fills the air, and the ground seems to want to explode underneath him while it shakes as if in an earthquake. His vision takes on a eerie black and purple hue, and he can see ghosts. Horrible black ghosts who screech and claw at the air with their dark misty hands, glowing red hearts in the centers of them. He can see no other features than that and their body shape though.

There's a faint sound of human yelling as he falls down to the floor and cups his hands around his ears in a vain attempt to deaden the noise. His head has started to hurt violently, and in his eyesight grow firey spots, like the edges of a burning paper. Kjetil thinks he can also see light, light stars and his eyes begin to feel a painful strain.

"Sjetil!" He hears over everything for a short moment, and his hurt is erased. But the static returns, doubled. He can't focus on much in front of him now, and he might be screaming. There's a warm, slick feeling running down the skin of his belly.

Then he blanks out for the umpteenth time in a day or two- and as soon as he's under, he's out, which is different from the other times. It's a harsh and abrupt change, going from the killing static to the queer silence, and he doesn't like it. He should, though. He should be waking up and searching for his friend and asking what happened.

But he doesn't want to open his eyes again.

He knows he's going to see devils.

ooo

I promise Norway is not going to go through life-threatening situations this often in the story anymore, and there'll be an explanation in later chapters.


	4. Old Meets New

Kjetil is going to see devils.

But, maybe not that soon.

When his eyes rebel against his wishes, and the lids flutter upwards, he's faced by the sharp features of a blonde haired, blue eyed man who is wearing something clear yet shiny over his eyes and has a rather intense expression. It seems like he's glowering or concentrating very hard, though he won't guess because his vision is still blurry and dim. And then...

He feels a heavy hand over his wrist. It's not grabbing him or holding it down, just laying there weakly. It's almost like a hug, but without that much contact. Comfort washes over him as he looks over to see that it's Magnus who is doing the odd jesture, his face conveying a mix of worry and happiness, with dark bags under his eyes as if he had not slept. It was great to see the familiar face, but, who is the sour faced blonde man who had been watching him and now walked away over to an area the blonde couldn't see?

When he's going to attempt to ask, a voice cuts him off accidentally. "Oh, he's awake?" The voice calls over to either Magnus or the stranger. It's sugar-sweet, but has an odd tonation to it, not baritone, but a rather full, gutteral feel to it, which reminds him of the dialects of his language that he had heard when he travelled far up north to where the sea was always partially frozen and traders came from odd lands to sell bitter drinks that would make the immigrants from a far off island yell 'Timburmenn!' the morning after the huge parties they made- Well, the last part was unneeded, but he is reminded of it when he smells a smell like the heavy, bitter scent of the 'Vodka', if he was correct, that they'd consume, though this one has a salty and sweet ting to it.

His thoughts are stopped when the realization hits him that he's in a warm bed, in some random house that he doesn't know, and with people he doesn't really consider friends, other than, maybe, Magnus. Yet, the blonde Dane, sensing his worry, tells him to calm down.

"Take it easy," he chides. "You've got a huge cut on your stomach, and it took Berwald and Tino ages to stich it up. They'd go haywire if you even popped one stitch."

It's when he feels the numb, heaviness on his stomach that he realizes that there's an incision there.

"...Can someone help me get up?" he croaks, weakly. Popping a stitch doesn't really sound like a great idea at the moment. As soon as he speaks, people are by his side, directing him on how to place his hand, and when to roll over, something he's greatful for. They don't help him stand up though, seeing that sitting upright on the bed already causes him nausea, but it's better than his old position, since Kjetil is able to get a good look at the simple wood-and-rock walled room that has many shelves and desk-like things full of material like papers and jars. Blandly coloured rugs are splayed across the floor, some made out of fluffy furs and others of tightly woven cottons. It goes together very nicely, but he doesn't like the feeling of being caged inside of a room- It's unlike the forest. But for now, with his injury, he must get used to it all.

The short one with the sugary-sweet voice, Tino, was running through a checklist of questions concerning his state of well being to which he half pays attention to as he let his mind wander off. He answers them all honestly, but he really wants to ask them his own set of questions.

When he was done, Tino walks off to another room, presumably to get something. Kjetil took this time to ask questions.

Facing Magnus, he asks the things that problem him. "What's going on? What happened?"

The Dane's face looks very uneasy. "You're really sick. And hurt. The guard must have thrown something at you, or a wound reopened. Migranes, too." He looks away.

His blue eyes narrow in disbelief. "No, somethings up."

Drumming his thick, strong fingers upon the wooden frame of the bed which Magnus shared with him, he sighs. "Listen, I can't really talk now. A lot's been happening, and it's better if I arrange things with Swe-"

_Crash!_

The contents in one of the jars in front of them jerks violently, and off the shelf it goes, shattering as it makes contact with the covered yet hard floors. Out of it a gray, semi-transparent liquid seeps, and a rodent-like creature comes crawling out, all sticky and disgusting. Icy gasses float and fall onto the ground as watery ice. His eyes widen in horror, and Berwald comes running in, over to the mishap.

...And when he thinks his day can not get any more unusual, _dark mist comes out of the the tall blonde's hands._

Freaking dark mist that freeze the mess in time.

_Hva faen?_

He's placing it in a larger, dully-coloured container, and covering the open top with a crinkley, metal-like fabric, acting as if the whole situation is normal when it is not. The Norseman doesn't know how to react.

"The thing- He just- Stopped time! He shot gas out of his hands, and..." He rambles, completely shocked at what has happened. Seeing that something was wrong, Berwald pauses his job and faces the Dane sternly.

"Danm'rk, y'didn't tell 'im 'bout't?"

Trying to calm the Norwegian down and answer the accented man at the same time, he speaks in an irritated, quick fashion. "Listen, _Sverige_, I didn't get to tell him anything. He was knocked out like a drunk for half of the time and the other half he was sick like you wouldn't even know, you think I'd get to tell him anything?"

Tino peeks from the edge of the doorway."What's wrong?"

Grumbling, Berwald walks away with his little science experiment in hand to the other room.

"St'yupid Magnus d'n't do wh't 'e was t'ld t'do." He says as he storms off. The more levelheaded blonde looks at him for a second, and then walks to their side, sitting on a little space on the bed between Magnus and Kjetil.

"Look, um, Sjet'l..." Tino begins akwardly, mispronouncing his name almost like Magnus, "Sorry about that, Sweden's always quick to get angry with Denmark... But, do you really not know anything?"

He's frozen, unable to speak. His mind is processing small things which he isn't away of, like how Denmark was a nation Magnus had once mentioned.

"Ok, I'll take that as a no. But, y'see, you sort of started having a migrane-like thing, and you got hurt while you went through it- I-it's a long story, and you probably won't believe it," the short one admits.

After several moments, he blinks, and answers the intent man. "I've got time, and I'm willing to listen." Staring at Magnus, or 'Denmark', accusingly, he adds, "I want an explanation."

A little embarrased, the oddly accented (or at least odder than the rest of them) man begins speaking. "It isn't usually like this, when we find people like you. The situations are usually more calmer and we've got the whole team to help, but, we'll have to improvise."

"...People... Like me?"

"People like you and I- Well, us. We're different from the rest- From your family, from the people you've met before, and basically everyone except a select few. Maybe you've already noted it."

When he stays silent, Tino continues. "Most people are born under normal situations, within the usual realm of Miðgarðr of the Níu Heimar, where the humans are born- I'm sure your parents have told you the stories once or twice. But what you've never heard is when things go wrong, or just plain unusual. Instead of being born to human parents in the human realm, you're born from a parent who rests in Valhalla, and a god- Like the people in _Percy Jackson-_"

"Percy Jackson?" He asks, cutting him off.

A thin blonde eyebrow is raised at him as he speeds on. "You're more interested in a book character rather than the fact that we're telling you you're part god? Well, I'll tell you more about that later, it's a thing from the future. But, as I was saying, you're part god, part human-warrior, a thing that Surtr and the sons of Muspell don't really appreciate- Oh, Hel's always getting her father and her Valkyrie to hunt them down, so people like us often loose their families because bad luck follows us. It's sort of like a game, where they knock a ton of pins down and see who has the most dead before Ragnarök. But, they can't 'knock down' the 'pins' that have parents who layed mirror images of them in Ginnungagap a long time ago, for some unkown reason. But, those mirror images basically pop up in the future, specifically in Miðgarðr, and lead almost parallel lives, until the original one in the past reclaims it and becomes "whole", which along with giving them full control of their skills, also names them as a nation."

It was quiet for a pretty long while, as they kept staring at eachother, trying to soak in the information.

He wants to burst out laughing, but after seeing all of the ghosts, and the mist, he is partially convinced. But his other half tells him that this is all ridiculous and made up on a limb by madmen. He can walk away any moment, and no one can hold him back- After all, his life in the forest had given him muscle. But the memory of old stories told over and over again by his mother to him keeps him put. Mother had always said he was going to be special, that someday he would need to trust the words of strangers, but be wise when he did. Any person can say that to him, but that had a special meaning to him. So, with his mind resolved, he answers curtly.

"...Alright, then."

Tino gives him a particular look. "You're OK with this? I I mean, it's good and all that we don't have to give you more information, though there's still a lot more I have to cover, but if you're falling into silent panic or just want to leave, then-"

"-I'm not okay with this. I'm just agreeing," He states, deadpan. "I don't know what to do anymore, or where to go. I can go along with this, and help, but I.. Just need to get used to it all, I guess."

Another akwark silence falls upon them, though not as long as the last. It's broken by the smiling Dane who cheers.

"Welcome to the club, then!" He exclaims, grinning. The shorter blonde smiles sheepishly, part happy, part embarassed by Magnus' outburst. Right at the moment, a more calmer Berwald walks in, with some scrolls in hand, and a not-so-sour face. Maybe not happy, but less dark than before he had left the room.

"W'll, 'e needs t'be named. Sp'ngh'd'i's 'n _N'rge_, so..." He explains. "'s name'll b'N'rway, 'r N'rge."

"Norge," Magnus says, trying out how the name sounds, though mispronouncing it so it sounds more like 'Nåa'. "Norway... Hey, that's better than Sjetil, y'know." He gets a pillow thrown at him that he easily dodges.

"And now, you can call me the Awesome and Handsome Danmark, or Denmark, sour face is Sweden or Sverige, and short stuff is Finland. Or Finlont. Or Finlandia. Or Suomi. That kid has extra names because Sweden was thinking that Suomi was apparently not cool enough, or something." The others stare at him sternly.

"But, we still have to 'rescue' your other part, the one in the future," Tino says, killing the fun.

"Rescue? That sounds pretty... Big." Norway admits. He doesn't really want to go on some 'fantastic' journey to find his other half now, especially after his dream. The bubbling, black monster...

The blonde laughs. "Oh, no, it's just got some short spells. Nothing big physically, but it does affect your emotional ways, with the whole transfer of memories..."

"Then, what are we waiting for?" He asks, probably digressing everything the Finnish man said.

"Wh't _are_ we wait'ng f'r?" Berwald agrees. "'e's very w'll prep'rd em'tion'lly, fr'm wh't _j__äg_r'd off'a 'im wh'n 'e w's sleep'ng."

Not seeing a problem, Magnus and Tino both agree. They get off of the bed, and start talking to Berwald, and occaisionally pointing at things in his scroll. Many minutes later, when they've got everything sorted out, they start.

"You can just stay lying there. Make sure to be still and relaxed. Sweden'll begin the spell, and we'll follow along. If you start to get tired, that's good. Also, you'll start singing on reflex, so don't try to stop yourself. And now, Berwald, if you'll begin..."

Berwald begins speaking out a flat-tuned song in another language, which he can only make out snippets of. Then, Tino joins in with a more distant sounding language full of vowels and thick-sounding consonants. And, at last, Magnus adds his part, with a mix of a language sounding like the language they spoke, but slurred. But what threw him off was when he contributes to the mix with a subconcious melody of his own in a foreign language that he can somehow understand, full of rolled 'r's and rounded vowels, the language they spoke, and a distant cousin of the language they spoke now. Kjetil can't explain where it came from.

But, in the middle of his thoughts, he feels a gentle tugging in the back of his mind that grows in strength as he becomes sleepier. And, spontaneously, he feels as if he had been sucked into a _straw, _and into a _vast black hole._

It's a blank void. But, like a bursting soap bubble, the darkness is filled with energy, motion, and information. It's like learning on _fast-forward, _where he sees and feels the emotions in the scenes a mysterious stranger that he would come to identify as himself went through. He sees great towering buildings of gray called 'skyskrapers', huge parties, bigger than any he's witnessed, _computers, _and more.

And instead of panicking, the most odd question forms in his mind, with terminology he has never heard, but that he comprehends.

_What kind of drug am I on?_


End file.
